Gadjo
by Oldwickedsongs
Summary: Roma invade MontreuilSurMer, sending a certain Police Inspector on an uncomfortable trip down memory lane. M.Madeliene gets a laugh, Javert gets molested and small children commit larceny.


Author's Note: Inspired by Immigrants by Pat Mora which is posted here as a quote to open the story. I've been pining over Javert for a while now, cheeky punk and for the longest time refused to write something for him. Not for lack of attempts but for lack of coherent plot and characterization the pleased me. Needless to say, I'm content with this portrait and I humbly submit it to you.

Disclaimer: "If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended,

That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream."

-Midsummer's Night Dream

_Immigrants _

_wrap their babies in the American flag,  
feed them mashed hot dogs and apple pie,  
name them Bill and Daisy,   
buy them blonde dolls that blink blue  
eyes or a football and tiny cleats  
before the baby can even walk,  
speak to them in thick English,  
hallo, babee, hallo,  
whisper in Spanish or Polish  
when the babies sleep, whisper  
in a dark parent bed, that dark  
parent fear, "Will they like  
our boy, our girl, our fine American  
boy, our fine American girl?"_

- Pat Mora

**Gadjo**

**By: Lady Erised**

They were watching him from behind the curtains of the carriages, and from under the skirts of their mothers. They watched him from beneath the hoods of hats pushed down over their eyes and from over the edges of high collared shirts. The Kapo had first taken him into sight, with a sort of discerning glare better used when purchasing horses. They had watched each other for several moments before he seemed to decide that it was worth the risk, or worst, that he was of no concern.

He had pushed forward from behind the caravan; wide arms spread skyward and calling attention to the gaggle of spectators and curious on-lookers. The Kapo scanned the crowd with the certain expectancy actors all possessed when gazing into the audience. Then, with a laughter that exploded like an earthquake, the Kapo clapped his hands together and shouted. "Opa!"

It was like a magician opening the gates of magic themselves, as the Gypsies poured from each wagon, and cart unto the streets: a collection of dark-skinned, white tooth smiles, jingling bracelets and tambourines and spicy quick music that spilled from well-used instruments.

The city-folk applauded and clustered together to watch. Some, the elderly mostly because they were not children of the Revolution and of Napoleon and remembered a time before then, when the Gypsies cursed honest Christian folk and were not to be trusted, sneered and continued on their way. The children pushed to the front to watch as the men strummed fingers across guitar strings and flute holes. Unmarried and married woman alike began to cluster to an old tree of a woman who had peeled away from the safety of the core and took a seat on the ground where she began to shuffle cards that appeared from beneath her hand. Unmarried and married man alike clustered still by the music, with the children to watch as the maidens of the caravan spilled forward and began to dance.

They watched as the Gypsies came and preformed for their coin, and food. The Gypsies would be gone by tomorrow, if they even lasted for a couple of hours. They would not to try to make camp in a city; it was bad luck. They only came now because they were hungry, or tired or bored.

The Mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer let them because he was a sentimental man, and Police Inspector Javert, because he was Javert, abided by his wishes.

So the Gypsies came, and watched Javert watch them.

Javert had at first dismissed their gazes as caution. He was an avatar of justice and order after all, and if anything the Gypsies were known for was a casual disregard for civil obedience. He took up a situation near the edge of crowd between them and the crowd and palmed his cane and continued to watch them.

The Kapo stared at him with respect and curiosity. The Seer-woman stared up from her wrinkles and pierced him with her eyes. Javert could ignore them.

He turned and watched as the Gypsy children began to scatter through the throng of people, pushing up thin fingers up to their patrons, begging for money or boons. They wore dirtied clothes and their hair in naps to invoke fear or sympathy. Javert turned from the Kapo only then, to watch the urchins perform the skills afforded them.

It was a cunning con, even Javert had to admire it. As one child stumbled forward, arms raised in alms, another bumped against the patron- a common occurrence after all, children are clumsy- the second one could reach into a purse and snatched whatever was within its grasps.

Javert turned back to the Kapo to see nothing. He felt a child bump against his hip but didn't bother to look down. They would not steal for him. He was an Inspector.

He was a brother.

A memory rose up in his mind, before he could quell. It was brought about from the eyes, the music, the scene.

He remembers the script, remembering carefully running through the crowds, and watching as siblings, cousins and brothers mingled and picked their marks. He would always do the lift. It was not a crime, then nor could Javert ever truly consider it one now.

It was not a crime to steal from Gaje.

He must have moved, must have reacted or flinched because the Kapo reached out to him then.

Javert wet his lips and inhaled, and pretended not to notice the Kapo's act of comfort.

The Gypsy leader was undeterred. He cocked his head to one side and continued to study the Inspector in a way that invoked emotions Javert had not felt since he was a weak, ignorant child.

For the first time, in a long time, Javert felt Roma again. When a Kapo notices you, you react in humility and fearful adoration.

He could not remember his own Kapo. It was long ago. He only remembered his rough hands brushed over his hair, the weight of that massive paw on his head. It was so big, Javert use to think it could crush him like an ant. It never did. The Kapo only laughed, and stroked his hair and called him little man.

Though maybe Javert dreamed that. He found he could not trust memories outside the prison his youth had been spent. The prison had made taken him as a thief and showed him the crimes he possessed by merely existing as a Gypsy. They beat him till he wore shoes, and said Christian prayers and donned red without shying in fear. They shouted French at him till he understood it, till Romany crackled and blew away like ash on heated iron. They took him a prisoner, made him a guard, and finally an Inspector. He had been iron when they found him, when they were done; he was steel.

He was forever grateful for it.

But still, in a moment like this, he could feel something within him crack through. Something of the savage that broke through the will of the Frenchman and _remembered…_

He could see in the sunlight the Roma as they traveled. Could hear the tongue he only remembered as lashes upon his back, and even speak it back. He could think for a moment how it would be, to live under the sun and God. To remember stories, and customs and laws of a kind (for in truth, the Roma were fierce respecters of law and order.)

There's a catcall that pulls Javert from this daydream and he comes face to face with beauty embodied.

The Kapo called her the diamond and she danced like snow fall- light, engrossing and consuming. The dress she wore hung off shoulders, and clutched to hips as she twirled and spun to the music. She clapped her hands in rhythm and smiled with sweet looking lips. She was half his age, full of hips and narrow of waist. She moved like water, fluid and totally unmoved by the world around her. She could have been dancing for no one.

But she caught his eyes, and Javert knew she danced for him.

It was not for love, lust or chance for gain. He seemed to understand that from her quiet eyes that it had nothing to do with such quandary things. This was something else. A dance to remember, to recall, to honor, and to invite home.

As it sunk in, Javert felt a blow to the stomach. He might have stumbled, but he doubted it. He just paled, (an odd scene to be sure, with his burnished skin,) and tried to look away.

She went to him then. She threw the scarf she held and twirled around her towards him, brushing his cheek and leaving the smell of lilac across his face. She would have been kinder had she slapped him. The crowd around them whooped and applauded; pleased the see the good-natured dancer take a cheap shot at the stern Inspector. She ignored the laughter, the cheers and remained fixed on Javert. Her eyes met his as she kept him near her, just near enough to keep the scent of lilac and open fields dancing through his nose, creeping up and ensnaring memory.

She curled and snapped her head suddenly- making Javert jerk backwards, but not recoil. For a moment, their lips touched. Her eyes poured into his.

Come home, she seemed to ask him though her lips never moved. Come home she begged in a language Javert could only pretend to remember.

Javert sneered and turned away, pushing his cane into the ground as he swung about to retreat.

Through the din of the crowd, Javert froze as he heard the deep laughter and steady of applaud of one M. Madeleine. He stayed his retreat and bowed his head, waiting. Madeleine was smiling as he applauded, a twinkle in his eyes that spoke of teases meant without insult.

Javert took insult anyways.

"She fancied you." Madeleine deadpanned as he approached; he took a stance near Javert. He continued to stare at the Dancer, and smirked at him. "My dear Inspector, who knew you had such charm…"

"She had me mistaken for someone else." He growled. He kept his back firmly to the caravan, refusing to give any more leeway to dreamed memories and fleeting, witch-inspired desires.

"Had she stared at me with those eyes," Madeleine cooed in a tone one fellow would share to his companion only in bordellos or cafes. "I would gladly be someone else."

"Perhaps because Monsieur the Mayor can prosper in an alias." Javert hissed, catching onto the familiar ground and staying there. He pictured himself composed and contained and felt the ease of habit clam his nerves. He felt his uniform on his skin, hiding old brands and history and Javert gradually felt himself remembering what he was. He turned, and watched Madeleine with the same cool disregard he favored him at Toulon. "Some men find can only find comfort in assumed guises and stolen lives. They pretend to be law abiding because the alternative is a life of wandering and…crime." He bowed slightly and continued to walk away.

"You would do well to remember," Madeleine called. His voice was tender, pitying but not challenging. "There is life beyond walls, and law books, Monsieur Inspector."

Javert did not even hesitate in response. "Not for me."


End file.
